A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 2

struck him a body blow from his left, lifting Cutter upward, his moccasins leaving the flagstones. He twisted and slashed out at the attacker, and missed. The shield's impact had turned his left side into a mass of thrumming pain. He hit the ground and folded into a roll.
    Something thumped in pursuit, bounced once, then twice, and as the Daru regained his feet an Edur's decapitated head cracked hard against his right shin.
    The agony of this last blow – absurdly to his mind – overwhelmed all else thus far. He screamed a curse, hopped backward one-legged.
    An Edur was rushing him.
    A fouler word grated out from Cutter. He flung the knife from his left hand. Shield surged up to meet it, the warrior ducking from view.
    Grimacing, Cutter lunged after the weapon – while the Edur remained blind – and stabbed overhand above the shield. The knife sank down behind the man's left collarbone, sprouting a geyser of blood as he pulled it back out.
    There were shouts now in the courtyard – and suddenly it seemed the fighting was everywhere, on all sides. Cutter reeled back a step to see that other Tiste Andii had arrived – and, in their midst, Apsalar.
    Three Edur were on the ground in her wake, all writhing amidst blood and bile.
    The rest, barring their kin who had fallen to Apsalar, Cutter and Darist, were retreating, back through the archway.
    Apsalar and her Tiste Andii companions pursued only so far as the gate.
    Slowly, the spinning wind dwindled, the leaf fragments drifting down like ash.
    Cutter glanced over to see Darist still standing, though he leaned against a side wall, his long, lean frame sheathed in blood, helm gone, his hair matted and hanging down over his face, dripping. The sword Grief remained in his two hands, point once more on the flagstones.
    One of the new Tiste Andii moved to the three noisily dying Edur and unceremoniously slit their throats. When finished, she raised her gaze to study Apsalar for a long moment.
    Cutter realized that all of Darist's kin were white-haired, though none were as old – indeed, they appeared very young, in appearance no older than the Daru himself. They were haphazardly armed and armoured, and none held their weapons with anything like familiarity. Quick, nervous glances were thrown at the gateway – then over to Darist.
    Sheathing her Kethra knives, Apsalar strode up to Cutter. 'I am sorry we were late.'
    He blinked, then shrugged. 'I thought you'd drowned.'
    'No, I made shore easily enough – though everything else went with you. There was sorcerous questing, then, but I evaded that.' She nodded to the youths. 'I found these camped a fair distance inland. They were ... hiding.'
    'Hiding. But Darist said—'
    'Ah, so that is Darist. Andarist, to be more precise.' She turned a thoughtful gaze on the ancient Tiste Andii. 'It was by his command. He didn't want them here ... because I imagine he expected they would die.'
    'And so they shall,' Darist growled, finally lifting his head to meet her eyes. 'You have condemned them all, for the Edur will now hunt them down in earnest – the old hatreds, rekindled once more.'
    She seemed unaffected by his words. 'The throne must be protected.'
    Darist bared red-stained teeth, his eyes glittering in the half-shadows. 'If he truly wants it protected, then he can come here and do it himself.'
    Apsalar frowned. 'Who?'
    Cutter answered, 'His brother, of course. Anomander Rake.'
     
    It had been a guess, but Darist's expression was all the affirmation needed. Anomander Rake's younger brother. In his veins, nothing of the Son of Darkness's Draconian blood. And in his hands, a sword that its maker had judged insufficient, when compared to Dragnipur. But this knowledge alone was barely a whisper – the twisted, dark storm of all that existed between the two siblings was an epic neither man was ever likely to orate, or so Cutter suspected.
    And the skein of bitter grievances proved even more knotted than the Daru had first imagined, for it was then revealed that the youths were, one and all, close kin to Anomander – grandchildren. Their parents had one and all succumbed to their sire's flaw, the hunger for wandering, for vanishing into the mists, for shaping private worlds in forgotten, isolated places. 'The search for loyalty and honour', Darist had said, with a sneer, whilst Phaed – the young woman who had shown mercy to Apsalar's victims – bound his wounds.
    A task not done quickly. Darist – Andarist – had been